But Really, What am I doing with my life?

Alright, I'm resigned to the fact that I'll be walking dogs for a while.  I haven't been aggressively filling out job applications.  After walking my first round of dogs on Friday, I realized that I:

1. really love dogs and miss having woofs in my life.
2. like being outside and exploring the city.
3. have a lot of flexibility and freedom as an independent contractor.
4. actually have more responsibility- what with holding onto a ton of house keys and being responsible for people's pets and houses and whatnot.

Instead of pining for a museum job I might never get (damn you economy!), I am turning my attention to trips.  I have been dying to go to Sri Lanka to visit my friend Chath from the amazing GENOCIDE SHRINES, so hell with it.  I'm planning.  And Europe in the summer?  WHY NOT I ASK.  I need to travel.
I need inspiration.  I need to do something with my life.

My ex told me once that I "expect too much out of life" and that most people "just go to work, go home and do stuff occasionally." Certainly in the meh economy, this is doubly true.  But what does it hurt to horde my money and blow it on a few well-planned and much needed trips?  One can learn so much from travelling- about new foods, new cultures, new experiences...

I just need to write.  I need to fuel my desire to write.  Stories swirl in my brain, but I have little motivation to commit them to paper (or e-paper).  Writing remains my only skill.  Failing at art, music and sports, words are the only medium I can manipulate to evoke some sort of feeling.  Even in my academic writing, voice is my strong suit.  But this is all I have.  Even as a historian, my strongest suit wasn't research or theory, it was twisting words to suit my purpose, breaking down theory and rebuilding it much more simply.  Joan Scott, Evelyn Brooks Higginbotham, your theories- love them though I do- I simplified them.  Sorry.  (Not sorry.)

But where does this leave me?  Publishing is changing.  Writing is changing. More freelance, more saturation, more...self-promotion.  It's rough out there for everyone.  (Especially in the two fields I am decent at, ya jerks.)  As I strolled through the National Portrait Gallery today, examining galleries of new artists, I was reminded that nothing I could ever create would hang on a wall, somewhere, admired by thousands a day.  Even if I could link enough words for a book, it doubtlessly would remain unpublished and unread.  Who needs another coming-of-age heartwarming teen story?  

I'd just like someone from the future to swoop in and say "no no, it's all going to be ok.  Don't worry about a thing."